Saruman's Curse
by Hillary G. Anderson
Summary: **A SILLY story. Not to be taken seriously at all.** A party at Saruman's you say? What a delightful evening it will be, with wine and cheese and friendly business chatter with the Mouth of Sauron. But it doesn't work out quite the way Saruman had planned. Before the night is over, Saruman will face a curse...and it will change him forever. (Rated T for some language & violence.)


**Saruman's Curse**

by Hillary G. Anderson

Saruman was the most prestigious of wizards in Middle Earth. His spells were legend. He had the whitest beard, the chicest robes, and—most importantly—a nose as long and crooked as Brandywine River. But for all his accomplishments, he was haunted by his one, great failure.

It began with a dog. A horrid little thing with a misaligned, misshapen jaw and a rats' nest of fur atop its head. On a windy, star-filled night, the creature shambled to the front door of Saruman's mighty tower and knocked with one, timid paw. Expecting a delivery of the finest herbed chevre this side of the Grey Havens, Saruman flung open the door.

"You're late," he barked at the empty space in front of him. "Now the cheese will never reach the right temperature before—" He stopped. Confusion crinkled his brow, drawing his great bushy eyebrows (of which he was vastly proud) closer together. Then a whimper guided his gaze down. Revolted at the rat-dog cowering at his feet, Saruman swallowed against the threat of vomit and choked, "What do you want?"

"I seek your help, great wizard," the dog squeaked. "There is a curse, a powerful curse on me, and only you—"

"What makes you think," the wizard's voice rumbled, "I have any interest in helping you?" He didn't have time for this. In just a few hours the Mouth of Sauron would be here for a meeting, and Saruman had yet to finish polishing the powder room floor (the Mouth had a famously small bladder) and pairing the wine and cheese correctly (the Mouth also had a famously prejudiced palette).

"Get out of here," Saruman growled and turned away.

"Wait!" The dog stuck its paw in the door. It was unexpectedly strong; the door refused to budge. "I am more than I appear to be! If you help me, I can make you more powerful than you can imagine!"

Saruman sneered at the beast. Then he laughed, low and ominous as thunder. "That," he said, "is highly unlikely."

"An elf," said the dog. "An elf near Rivendell, she – she cast this horrible spell on me. I am actually powerful wizard like you. If you can break this curse, I shall give you a portion of my own power. You'll be the mightiest wizard in Middle Earth!"

"Elves do not cast curses," said Saruman, thumbing his nose and stroking his glorious beard. "And I am already the mightiest wizard in Middle Earth, as you surely know."

"Well, this elf was a real bitch," the dog growled. Saruman flinched at its language. No one dared speak like that around him. "And how do you know you're the greatest wizard in Middle Earth?"

Saruman spread his arms wide, his robe swirling about him like whitewater. "Behold my tower, the finest to be found in this world, and in the best neighborhood, too." The dog snorted, but Saruman went on, motioning to himself. "Behold the beauty of my attire, the length of my beard, the beakiness of my nose! All of them evidence, all of them symbols of my vast achievements!"

"All of them symbols of your vanity," the dog barked. "You refuse to help me, then?"

Saruman kicked the vile creature in its mouth, knocking its already misshapen jaw further out of whack. It backed away with a growl.

"You choose your façade and boastful words over the chance to gain real power, simply because you find me distasteful?"

"This is no façade," said Saruman. "And although boastful my words may be, they are sweeter on the tongue than your lies. Go, and take your 'power' with you."

"Sweeter on your tongue, you say?" The dog cocked its head and glared with one milky eye, the other being shadowed over with matted hair. "Then let the lingering taste in your mouth be your reminder of this, the greatest failure of your miserable life."

The dog turned and ran, limping and skipping away faster than Saruman thought possible for such a pitiful specimen of life. In moments, it was gone from sight. Perhaps there was more to the beast that he'd thought. Perhaps he should have at least considered helping him.

He scoffed at his own thoughts and touched a finger to his magnificent nose, then he went back inside the tower.

As he entered the great hall, lamenting the fact that the chevre might never arrive in time, he was struck with a smell so wretched, so disgusting that he had to sprint to the powder room to empty the meager contents of his stomach. But he found no relief after the sickness passed. The smell had followed him. He gagged and dry-heaved while checking the hems of his robes, the bottoms of his sandals. Had he any foul dog mess on his wardrobe? He could find nothing.

In utter frustration, he blew out a mighty sigh, and immediately started to vomit again. What? What was this? Once the vomiting ceased, he stumbled to the mirror. His reflection stared back at him—pale and shiny with sweat, but his own. Where had the smell come from? He pursed his lips and carefully released a breath no greater than the gentle sigh of a fruit fly.

There. There it was. Coming from within his own mouth. Pinching his nose, he opened his mouth and examined it in the mirror. There was nothing stuck in between his teeth, no wad of mysterious foodstuff stuck in his craw. So what was it?

Then he remembered the dog's parting words: Let the lingering taste in your mouth be your reminder of this, the greatest failure of your miserable life.

Halitosis? Really? That was the dog's punishment? Saruman scoffed and pulled out the Listerine. He used the entire bottle, just to be safe. The smell would not abate. Slightly worried now, Saruman tried simple spells, the ones he used to keep the kitchen garbage from stinking up the tower, or stop bathroom odors from seeping into the carpet. They didn't work. He tried more powerful spells, the one he used to cover the stench of ogres, then the one he used to control the sulfurous vapors wafting from Mt. Doom. Nothing worked.

At that moment there was a knock at the front door. Oh god, he's here, thought Saruman. The Mouth is here.

No longer were goat cheese and wine and a shiny powder room floor his foremost worries. He gathered himself as best he could, determined to speak as little as possible tonight, to avoid offending Sauron himself by subjecting the Mouth of Sauron to this horrible stench. But, alas, talking is an essential part of any business meeting, and though the Mouth covered his revulsion fairly well—after the initial shock, of course—by the end of the evening Saruman knew he was screwed. The Mouth would never deign to make direct, personal contact again.

And so, because of that wretched dog, Saruman was cursed to live in his beautiful tower in the best neighborhood all by himself, with no one to see his magnificent beard or fantastic nose, and no one to compliment his chic robes. For no one in Middle Earth could tolerate Saruman's halitosis.


End file.
